


Take Care

by fennecfawkes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Post-The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9349922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: Post-The Final Problem. Mycroft accepts the care Lestrade promised Sherlock he'd give him.Not my characters (duh).





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't Mystrade'd in ages but that episode rendered me unable to stay away.

Mycroft Holmes wakes up on a couch.

Actually, “couch” is uncharitable; this is a chaise, and it’s a comfortable chaise, and it’s one he’s been on before, and always under unfortunate circumstances. “Unfortunate” may be underselling it this time around. Through the fog of too much sleep, he begins to piece together the previous day’s (multiple days? Impossible to tell) events. His brother. His sister. Sherlock's friend, the forgotten one. He resists shuddering and curses himself for reacting this way.

Mycroft sits up and looks down at the pajamas Gregory had coaxed him into wearing in the very early hours of the morning. Apparently, he’d been upgraded to provided pajama status since his last visit. When had that been? The triple homicide in Soho? That sounds right. The smell of coffee invades Mycroft’s nostrils, and he tries to hide his smile as Gregory walks into the room, a steaming mug in each hand. He hands Mycroft his mug and sits on the couch—they can’t all be chaises, Mycroft supposes—across the room from where Mycroft’s still straightening up. He’s not wearing pajama bottoms. Mycroft resists the urge to stare at Gregory’s bare legs and feet. A bathrobe covers most everything, but it can’t hurt to be careful.

“Sleep OK?” Gregory asks, and his voice, always a bit rough, is even rougher with the remnants of sleep. Again, the urge to gulp; again, the resistance.

“Better than expected, thank you,” says Mycroft. “I can’t help wondering if you laced my glass of water with something or another.”

“D’you really think I want Anthea to kill me?” Gregory raises an eyebrow; it’d be comical if he weren’t so— _Gregory_. “I get the feeling you needed it.”

“Quite.” Mycroft looks down at his hands wound tightly around the mug and attempts to loosen his grip. It works, a bit. “It’s been a trying few days.”

Gregory huffs a laugh. “Only Mycroft Holmes goes through hell and calls it ‘trying.’” His expression softens. “Really, though, are you alright? I know you’re made of pretty damn stern stuff, but anyone would be rattled after ... all of that.” When Mycroft doesn’t say anything, Gregory sighs and runs a hand through his hair, still sleep-mussed. “You don’t have to be made of steel all the time, you know.”

“Doesn’t hurt to be,” says Mycroft. “I appreciate the sentiment, though.”

Gregory sighs again, deeper this time, and shakes his head. “Don’t appreciate it, internalize it. How many times were you held at gunpoint in the past 24 hours?”

“More than a few.”

“And how many times were you afraid someone would actually pull the trigger?”

“More than once,” Mycroft says, and he feels himself drawing in, physically and otherwise. Vulnerability has never been his strong suit. To his horror and excitement—mostly excitement, if he’s being honest with himself—Gregory stands and walks across the room, settling down next to him on the chaise. He puts his arm across Mycroft’s shoulders, not quite holding him so much as offering a touch of physical comfort. Mycroft stiffens for a moment before relaxing, and Gregory tightens his hold—it’s a hold now; whether that’s Mycroft’s doing or Gregory’s or both, Mycroft’s decided not to dwell on it.

“I’ll be here,” says Gregory. “The rest of the day. The next one, too, if you need it.”

“But your work—”

“They understand that someone I care about needs a hand.”

“I’ve never really considered the possibility that I am someone you care about, Gregory,” says Mycroft, and it doesn’t feel too forward, not with Gregory’s arm around him.

“Haven’t been thinking too hard about it, then, have you?” Gregory smiles, and Mycroft lets his head drop against Gregory’s shoulder.

“Entirely too hard, I’m afraid.”

“I know the feeling,” says Gregory. Mycroft feels something then—lips, brushing against the top of his head, right where the hairline’s receded most. Why that spot, he’s not sure, but he’s not inclined to complain right now. He cranes his neck, looks at Gregory, who’s looking down at him.

“I know now’s not really the time,” Gregory says, and Mycroft cuts him off, surging upward just enough to kiss him. It’s soft and short and innocent, and Gregory looks a bit dazed.

“It’s not,” says Mycroft. “But give me a few hours, and it might be. For now, can we just...?”

“We can,” Gregory agrees, and soon, Mycroft’s drifting off again, substantially more comfortable than he was before.


End file.
